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Title: Phone’s A Ringin’, Asses’ A Swingin’
Author: AudBall
E-mail: audball505@hotmail.com
Rated: PG-13
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, but the story is.
Note: Pointless Plot. AU. Just fun and new. Inspired by this commercial I saw. Forgot what it was but it was foreign.
Dedication: For four years I have seen you go from an uncertain Freshman to a blooming Senior, and now, a Graduate. Congrats, BB, my friend. You’re awesome all around. Don’t let anything and anyone stop you from what you want and what you deserve. Good Luck @ Art Institute! I know you’ll do well, even if you can’t drive through Downtown Denver to save your life. *lol*
Summary: Angel gets caught teasing Buffy. (Short Story for BB2)
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It was a blistering Saturday afternoon in Los Angeles, California. Outside a small cafe, under a large dark green umbrella in the classier part of town sat Liam O'Roarke, also know as Angel to the few people he considered as friends. He sat casually on a cushioned chair as he contemplated over a glass of chilled cappuccino and the stock market section of the newspaper. Dressed rather regally in a pair of khakis, white button up shirt, shiny black shoes, and a pair of sunglasses, he looked like a typical spoiled LA native.
“Angel,” a voice greeted.
The dark man sitting with an ankle perched on his knee didn’t even bother looking up as he turned the page of the paper he held. “You’re late.”
“Aren’t I always?” Doyle asked, flopping across him and ordering himself a glass of ice tea, “A Long Island, please.”
“Make that a No Island,” Angel grumbled out.
Doyle shrugged at the waitress and then nodded. “It’s too early for alcohol anyway.”
“So the drunk finally says,” Angel sighed and folded his newspaper before slapping it onto the lace covered table.
Doyle laughed good naturedly. “You need to loosen up, Angel. You’re 33 years old not 45. Live life the wild way while you still can.”
“Correction. I’m 32,” he told his friend, “And if I lived on the ‘wild’ side of things, I’d be a 32 year old divorcee with a drinking problem and a friend who is almost happy to remind him of those facts every moment of the day.”
“Ah, you wound me, my friend,” Doyle said, feigning hurt as he grasped his hands together against the left side of his chest. He then sighed and shook his head, not at all offended at Angel’s harsh comments. It was what he did and Doyle had accepted it. Angel was as mysterious and baffling as the infamous Lockness Monster. Hints of his personality surfaced, but more often than not, it was always hidden behind a lake of indifference . . . as though if he let too much people see the real him, he’ll be found and hurt in the end.
No one really knew a lot about him either. He moved in one day in Doyle’s apartment building, just a floor below, and showed up at his favorite Irish pub. He pushed himself into Angel’s life and pretty much hung on like an undesirable pest or a useless appendage, and Doyle never really let go ever since.
For four years since meeting Angel, Doyle only found out three facts about him: 1) The man was an absolute genius and rich beyond belief, owning a branch of four-star hotels he named The Hyperion that would put The Hiltons to shame, 2) He had no living relatives, and 3) He was traumatized greatly by a woman he thought he had loved. Who that girl was, Doyle never had the chance to really find out more, and his tricks of getting Angel drunk so he would spill never really worked since he was too far gone himself to remember his mission in the first place. Whatever happened with this woman had left Angel distrustful and cynical.
“You need a girlfriend,” Doyle sighed.
“Lucky me, I can’t find one,” Angel smiled humorlessly.
Doyle rolled his eyes. “Right. That’s why boxes of underwear with naughty photos and letter arrive at your door almost daily. ‘Can’t find one’ my ass,” he muttered bitterly at his friend’s many fortunes.
“Drop it, Doyle,” Angel almost yawned jadedly as he took a sip of his drink.
“Hey, check it out,” Doyle said, motioning towards the new art gallery that had opened across the cafe. “Maybe you can find something for your private art museum,” he said, knowing of Angel’s great pleasure in all things artistic, “You may find a nice new original to add to your collection.”
A young blonde stepped out of the building, her eyes covered with a pair of sleek looking sunglasses, tinted lightly with brown and dressed cheekily in a short, light tanned sundress with strappy sandals; She looked like an everyday LA bottle-blonde.
Doyle smirked. “Specifically that delicious piece right there,” he said, taking in every inch of the woman’s petite body, so small and supple that it caused a riot with Doyle’s fantasies . . . and every other male within the vicinity as well.
Angel’s thoughts had steered towards the same way as his eyes glided over her short skirt that covered a firm and delectable ass and long limbs fit to grasp and hold for any sort of extreme riding. Through his sunglasses, he continued watching her as she locked the glass doors.
“Hey, hand me your cell phone,” Doyle said, interrupting his thoughts.
“What? Why?” he asked as he took it out and handed it over.
“Just give it to me,” Doyle said impatiently. He snatched the phone away and dialed a number before Angel can protest. “Yes, hi. Can I get the number to an art gallery named . . . ” Doyle looked up and squinted his eyes to catch the name, “ . . . Summers Galleria.” He gave the address and quickly wrote down the number and called it just as the blonde started pulling down the gates.
Angel’s head tilted slightly as she bent forward to lock the gate to the ground, catching a glimpse of her derriere. A sudden surge of jealousy worked up through his body as he looked around and noticed that most of the males of the cafe were staring and smiling at the blonde’s form.
Just then, the distant sound of a phone ringing emitted through the building. The girl frowned slightly and strained to hear it. The men of the cafe became quiet, waiting for what was to happen next. The young woman sighed and dropped her bag next to her feet and bent over again to unlock the gate. Angel held his breath at the site of more of her perfect little ass.
Doyle chuckled lightly as he held the phone in his hand. They then watched the blonde unlock the glass doors and enter the gallery, the rings suddenly ending. She came back out with a frown and lock the glass doors once more before reaching up to get the iron black gates and bending over to lock it once more to the ground.
“Jesus Christ,” Doyle groaned, “Will you look at that?”
“I’m looking at it,” Angel replied, eyes drawn towards the cute little ass he couldn’t look away from. Luscious, lickable and . . . spankable. All those rolled into one and he couldn’t wait to try it out. There was just something about her that drew him to her. Maybe it was the gold in her hair, the curves of her body, the perky breasts that bounced happily within their confines, or the succulent cheeks of her ass. Whatever it was, she was a walking orgasm and Angel wanted endless tries with her.
Doyle redialed the number once more. They watched as the blonde let out an irritated breath and lean to unlock the gate. A few of the guys around them chuckled softly and some of the women got up and left at the adolescent display.
Angel frowned and finally snatched the cell phone away just as the little blonde entered the gallery in a huff and the phone stopped ringing once more.
“C’mon, Angel,” Doyle began with his trademark smile, “It’s just a bit of fun. No harm done. And it’s not like the lass knows.”
“You are such a pervert,” Angel mumbled with a frown.
“I’m Irish,” Doyle remarked as though it was the answer to everything good and bad about him.
“So am I,” he held up his phone, “But am I calling strangers to get a peek of their ass . . . ?”
The scene of a few men hastily rushing out of the cafe caught their attention . . . as well as the audible sound of a woman clearing her throat. Two sets of eyes looked up to find the pretty blonde glaring down at them, cheeks flushed with an oncoming temper tantrum. To Angel, she looked even more beautiful up close and in her furious state.
“Well . . . Angel,” Doyle began gathering his things as Angel and the blonde continued to stare at each other, “I’ll see you later. You . . . you have a good day.”
Angel finally caught himself and began stuttering, a far cry out from his usual cool and collected self. “I know how this looks . . . ”
“Yeah, right. I’ve been in this God forsaken city for a month already and during that time, I have been constantly harassed by men like you,” she began, “I may be a small town girl in a big wealthy city, but I know when I’m being sexually violated, and that, Mister, is what you just did.”
She then snatched his phone and called her cell with it. She glanced down at the unfamiliar number that showed up on the little screen. “Matches the same number on my Caller ID.” She handed him his phone back and said, “I may be blond, but I’m no bleach brain.”
Angel could only gaze at her, not knowing what to say or do exactly. But she was one little firecracker he had to admit. All rolled into one, she was one sexy explosion waiting to happen. “Listen. I know how this looks, being caught red handed and all but it was my friend,” he said, motioning towards where Doyle had sat, “It wasn’t me.”
“Have you been taking lessons from Shaggy because I’m not buying it,” she answered.
Angel frowned. “From who?”
“Pop culture reference. Ever heard of it?”
“I try and stay away from it.” Angel could tell she fought to keep a smile away. He ran with it. “Look, my friend has left me to take the blame. I won’t deny the fact that, yes, I was checking out the scene, but I am male after all.”
She glared at him. “Is this suppose to make me feel better?”
He chuckled lightly, not able to help himself at the sight and closeness of her. “No. But I would like to make it up to you by asking you to have lunch with me.”
She hesitated and he latched on, momentarily reminding himself of Doyle. “Please. I promise I don’t bite.”
“Something tells me that that should be the least of my worries,” she said, but took a seat anyway.
“My name’s Angel O’Roarke, by the ways.”
“Angel. Pretty name. I’m Buffy, Buffy Summers.”
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Six months later, Angel O'Roarke and Buffy Summers were married in a quaint little ceremony in the Los Angeles Hyperion Hotel with a small gathering of family and friends. A year later, their first child, Connor, was born.
Buffy and Angel plan to build a house and a vineyard in Napa Valley. They’re still together, their love still going strong. They’re expecting their second child within 7 months.
Doyle is still single and ready to mingle. If you’re interested call 555-2783.
~{End}~
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